


Tired

by orphan_account



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deimos and Porthos comfort each other during times of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_nerd_word](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/gifts).



> This is for the-nerd-word, who wanted some Deimos/Porthos fic. <3

Phobos left late. Deimos hovered at his shoulder, practically pushing him out the door, trying not to be obvious about it and failing.

"What, Deimos?" Phobos finally snapped, having just turned around and found himself chest-to-chest with the fighter. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You're going to be late," Deimos reminded him, keeping the second part hidden; the  _real_  reason he needed Phobos to leave. If he left too late, Porthos would arrive too early.

"I know," Phobos said. "I know, I just—how do I look? Do I look all right?"

Deimos blinked, stepped back so he could peer at Phobos. He looked…the same as ever, really, in his white fatigues, hair loose around his face. He opened his mouth, but apparently he had taken too long to respond already.

Phobos huffed and turned toward the door. "Never mind," he said, voice sharp. He raked a hand through his hair and reached for the door panel, letting the metal hiss back.

Deimos felt a moment of apprehension, wondering if anyone would be on the other side—if Porthos would be—but the hallway was empty. He let out a slow breath. It would be easier if Phobos stayed in the dark, didn't know about Deimos and Porthos—easier for everyone.

"At least I've made it this far," he said in the doorway, glancing back at Deimos, giving Deimos another moment of unease as he lingered. "At least Keeler asked  _me_ to attend this briefing; not even Porthos is going. Abel isn't either."

Deimos kept quiet, knew the real reason wasn't quite what Phobos thought; knew that no one else was attending the briefing because Keeler thought it was beneath him, had asked the better-ranked navigators to spend their time resting up. Porthos said that Phobos had almost made the cut, was almost good enough to get a free pass—almost, but not quite.

Deimos didn't say anything; Phobos would find out soon enough anyway. He had barely left the room, the door swishing shut behind him, when it opened again. Deimos whirled around, almost expecting it to be Phobos coming back, fussing about his jacket or hair again, but it was Porthos.

He kept his head turned away as he entered; gaze fixed on the hallway; didn't notice Deimos was right there until he pressed right up against Porthos' chest. The door whooshed closed just in time, just before Deimos levered all his weight against Porthos and pushed him back against the cold metal.

"Whoa," Porthos said, chuckling, hands falling to Deimos' hips. "Hey."

Deimos breathed in, ran his hands up the broad width of Porthos chest, tipping his head back to look him in the eye. He smiled.

"How've you been?" Porthos asked, brushing the backs of his fingers over Deimos' cheek. "How's Phobos?"

Deimos shrugged because that was as good an answer as any. Porthos nodded slowly, fingers still brushing cool and soft over Deimos' cheek, looking at him as if he understood. Porthos made things so easy; always had. Deimos understood him in a way that he would never understand Phobos—Phobos who was complicated; too needy and fake to ever be easy to handle. Porthos was straightforward; no front, easier than Phobos, easier by far than Cain.

Deimos knew what Porthos got out of it; knew that he wanted something different, too, something  _easy_. On the Sleipnir, in the war, simplicity didn't come easy, and sometimes all Deimos wanted was to be away from all the hard things; all the things he didn't understand, the things that made being here just that much more difficult.

He let Porthos push him back, content to let Porthos handle him exactly the way Deimos wanted—not the frantic way Phobos did, not mean like Cain—just firm, persuasive, the barest hint of a smile on Porthos mouth because he and Deimos were so similar and they both knew it. They were quiet, in the background, but most of all they were  _tired_ , always so fucking  _tired_ , and being together was easy.

Deimos lay back, spread out on the mattress, pulled off his clothes as Porthos climbed on after him, sitting back on his heels and petting Deimos' thighs once he bared them. He sighed at the feeling of Porthos' hands sliding all the way up his body; torturously slow and sure, palms skimming over his thighs, across his stomach, all the up to his chest. His body followed right after, rising up above Deimos until he hovered just above him. He lowered himself onto his elbows, framing Deimos' face, heat of his body so close.

Deimos fingered the hem of Porthos' shirt, not so casual with him so close; not quite content to just lie there quietly. Porthos' smile widened, straightening up again to pull off his shirt, ruffling the hair at the top of his scalp. His legs bracketed Deimos' on the bed, knees pushing into the mattress, cradling Deimos between his spread thighs.

"How are you, really?" Porthos asked again, lowering his head to breathe the words in Deimos' ear, back rounding; skin glowing faintly in the dimmed lights of the room.

Deimos sifted his fingers through the longer hair at Porthos' head, following the trail all the way down to the back of his neck, gripping and tilting his face to the side, covering Porthos' mouth with his own before he could ask any more questions. Porthos resisted for a moment, just a small push, as though he were going pull back to ask again, but maybe he thought better of it, or understood that this was an answer in itself.

Deimos sat up, kept his hands wrapped around the back of Porthos' neck to keep them connected. When he felt movement between their bodies, Deimos realized that Porthos was undoing his pants, struggling to free himself from the fabric without moving away. Deimos laughed against his lips, then pulled away, flopping back onto the mattress to give Porthos room to roll off of him and out of the rest of his clothes.

Sometimes it still surprised Deimos—all the pale skin and blond hair. He had a feeling that even if he spent the rest of his life with the Alliance, constantly around navigators, he wouldn't get used to so much fair skin and hair; they were a rarity in the colonies, a novelty, and sometimes Deimos still caught himself wondering how he'd managed to snag someone so beautiful—anyone so beautiful—when they were in such high demand. But then he realized that they weren't a novelty here; that for every fighter that was a golden navigator. The only difference was that no matter where Deimos went, they would always be in higher demand than him; just a little bit better.

Then Porthos was back, his mouth covering Deimos', and it didn't feel like he was better, didn't feel like they were any different with how Porthos rolled over him, hot skin and large body pressing Deimos into the mattress; caging him in and trapping him. He pulled back with a gasp, feathering his fingers through that pale hair again as Porthos mouthed down the side of his neck.

"I missed you," Porthos said, so quiet that for a long moment Deimos wasn't sure he'd actually said the words at all, but with the way he kept brushing his lips against Deimos neck; slow and soft, not doing much of anything else, Deimos knew he'd said it. Even if Porthos had no reason to miss him; hadn't been apart long enough to miss him.

Deimos breathed in, tried to say work up the nerve to say something, to force noise out of his throat. Then Porthos pulled back, face serious, but just the barest trace of a flush across his cheeks and nose made him look younger, almost boyish. His lips quirked up in a little self-deprecating smile. "It's all right," he said. "I just wanted you to know."

Deimos swallowed, nodded. Porthos leaned over the side of the mattress for a quick moment, coming back with a little bottle in his hands, sitting back and waiting for Deimos to part his legs, fold them up to his chest, heels of his feet tucked neatly against the backs of this thighs.

"So sweet," Porthos murmured, lowering one palm to Deimos' skin again, fingertips ghosting over the back of his thigh, brushing back and forth until Deimos was trembling. He jumped when the hand moved, heel of Porthos' palm rolling warm over Deimos' cock, making it jump in the moment before Porthos kept moving upward, hand skimming across Deimos' stomach and chest.

When he got to Deimos shoulder, he paused and pulled up. "Come here."

Deimos complied, more urgent now than he had been before; not quite so lazy as it had been, not when he was pressed up against the broad expanse of Porthos' chest, when he could feel all that tight hot skin against his own, could feel two slick fingers skating down the line of his back and then slowly pressing into him. He gasped, tilted his hips back into Porthos' hand, at the same time leaning forward to kiss again, sloppy and urgent, teeth clacking for a bare instant when Porthos smiled against his mouth.

"This OK?" Porthos asked when Deimos pulled away again. His fingers were sliding freer now, exploring deeper.

Deimos panted against Porthos shoulder and nodded. He skated his lips up the column of his throat to whisper in his ear: "Do it."

Porthos' fingers slipped free, and a moment later the blunt pressure of something bigger was pressed up against him. Deimos shuddered, sank back with a little moan at the same time Porthos wrapped both strong arms around him and pulled them tight together.

"Slow, yeah?" Porthos asked, just barely rolling his hips, slow burn as he buried himself all the way, his arms still tight around Deimos' torso.

Deimos didn't say anything, couldn't even if he wanted to, but Porthos knew him. They were the same, and sometimes it felt nicer just to do this and take comfort in someone who knew him; when it didn't feel like they were horses racing to a finish line. They just wanted to  _feel_ , slow because they were both so fucking exhausted, already, always.

God, but it was so easy between them; unhurried and simple, rock of bodies and the gathering of sweat on the back of Deimos' neck. Every now and then they kissed; little fleeting smudges of lips against skin that soon dissolved into panting and the occasional smile. When it was over, Deimos stayed put for a long moment, kissing Porthos slow just once more, fingertips brushing over the hairs on the sides of his head; buzzed short enough to be velvet-soft to the touch.

Porthos tightened his arms around Deimos and squeezed hard, groaning. Then he sighed, relaxing his hold. Deimos climbed off him, shivering as he fell back to the bed, watching Porthos lean back against the wall; their gazes catching.

Deimos swallowed and licked his lips. "I'm good," he said. "Thanks."

Porthos smiled, rubbed a hand over Deimos' thigh and then slowly got to his feet. Deimos watched him redress, making no move to stand. Once his clothes were back in place, Porthos ran a hand over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back down.

"I should go," he said, leaning an arm on the top bunk and peering down at Deimos. "Phobos might be back soon."

Deimos nodded against the pillow, waiting for Porthos to lean down and kiss him one last time. When he pulled back, he ran the pad of his thumb over Deimos' lower lip. "I'll see you later this week. OK?"

He nodded again, watched Porthos walk to the door and leave, casting one last look back at Deimos before the metal closed between them. Deimos had just wormed his way beneath the sheets of his bed when Phobos stormed in, seething and muttering under his breath.

Obviously, he'd realized that the briefing wasn't what he'd thought it would be, and he was pissed. He didn't say a word to Deimos as he stripped out of his clothes and climbed onto the upper bunk. Deimos listened to him toss and turn for what seemed like forever, wondering if Phobos wanted Deimos up there with him, if he wanted to be alone, if he wanted Deimos to wait until morning to say something to him, or if he wanted the comfort now. Deimos didn't know what to do, so he didn't do anything, keeping to himself in the bottom bunk because Phobos was never easy to deal with, and Deimos was just too fucking tired to try.


End file.
